Unsought Revelations
by Convenient Alias
Summary: "Most of the confidences were unsought-frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon..." In which Nick tries to stop people from pouring out their hearts to him, and mostly fails.


_"Most of the confidences were unsought-frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon..." -Nick Carraway_

* * *

People confide in me quite often, actually. I am never quite sure what it is about me that draws secrets out. Is it because I tend to reserve judgment and am equally amiable towards all (or at the very least, most)? Is it because I am not a talkative man and they assume I would tell no one the secrets they share with me? Is it because I often prove to be honest and they assume I am trustworthy?

Is it my face?

Well, whatever it is, it is certainly not that I ask people for their secrets. These days I am cautious to the point that I dare not even ask a man what is on his mind lest I end up hearing the saga of his tragic yet heroic childhood in Utah.

There are of course ways to ward off revelations, and I am adept at many of them.

Preoccupation is the easiest: Just when someone begins to start stammering in a way that is sure to lead up to something, or giving you glances that seem to be gauging whether you are fully ready to hear their momentous secret, you start glancing away, or staring into the distance, or wandering off topic, or just wandering away to talk to someone else if necessary. This dashes many people's hopes because, of course, if they are going to tell you a momentous secret, they want your full attention.

Being an easy technique, this occasionally fails.

Take the other week when I was talking to a certain Ewing Klipspringer. Now please don't ask me what I was doing talking to Klipspringer. At parties, and at Gatsby's parties in particular, you run into all sorts of people and are quite often drawn into conversation with them. And I did know Klipspringer, since he spends the majority of his time at Gatsby's mansion and these days I find myself often frequenting the place myself, though my attention is of course dominated by Gatsby himself at such times. In any case, I knew Klipspringer well enough to put a name to a face, and he knew me well enough, it seems, to unburden his soul.

"You think I'm a hanger-on, don't you," he said, in the midst of drinking a glass of champagne.

Now the truth of the matter is that I did consider him something of a parasite to Gatsby and to be honest still do. But not wishing to engage in argument I said, "Of course not."

Then I stared pointedly into the distance to give the appearance that I was not really paying attention. My gaze landed on the grand piano, which unfortunately brought my mind right back to Klipspringer, a pianist. I hoped it did not show on my face.

"You do," Klipspringer contradicted me. "You don't like the way I come here all the time, and take all my meals here, and spend half my nights here."

I didn't. I don't.

I said, "Hm?" as if I had not heard him. Anything to cut him off.

Klipspringer ignored me. "Well the truth of the matter is that I have a very good reason for always coming here. I don't go spreading this around very much..." Oh here it comes now. "...but I honestly prefer to stay here because my home is not a very pleasant place to be, if you know what I mean."

I did know what he meant. Home in the Midwest had not been very pleasant for me, with little excitement and my family always looking over my shoulders. Sadly, this must have made me look a bit sympathetic, because something inspired him to continue.

"My wife doesn't like me anymore. Thought I loved her once, but now I'm not sure I ever did..." He stared off into the distance sadly. "Thought I was going to be some kind of famous pianist, back then, and she believed it too. Maybe she didn't love me and married me because she thought I'd have money. Well, I don't have money, and now she wishes she weren't married to me."

I said, "Mmm..." in the least convincing manner possible. Where was Gatsby? Why couldn't he just be around to save me from his guest?

If this lasted much longer I was going to start sympathizing.

Klipspringer went on to tell me all his sorrows-how they had no children and she was bitter about this, how he had strived through the years to please her, how he always felt the need to get away, to drown himself in loud music, bright colors and alcohol, how he always felt guilty when he took a minute to think, and just how guilty he felt right now.

Throughout his speech I grunted ambiguously. I don't have the answers to everyone's problems. I have my hands full enough with Gatsby.

Klipspringer finally wandered off to play lachrymose music on the grand piano. As for me, I spent the rest of the night acting preoccupied to other drunken guests with slightly more success before hiding out in the library. Gatsby was preoccupied himself, with some of the guests that came that night. Too busy for me.

I am not especially bitter about that.

In any case, I should have remembered when talking to Klipspringer my second technique: the hostile levity.

Hostile levity sounds a bit paradoxical. After all, how can good cheer ever be unwelcome? Well, let me inform you: It is least welcome to someone who is trying to force a serious revelation on you. No one wants to tell someone who is laughing himself red in the face the tragic circumstances of his father's death or their own alcoholism.

Hostile levity is not so easy for one such as I, who prefers not to speak too boisterously even when in the mood for such things. I am a sensitive soul at heart. However, I have perfected a fake jovial laugh and tone of voice for times when such strategies are necessary.

Unfortunately, levity does not protect one from Tom Buchanan.

A couple nights ago, I was over at his place-his and Daisy's place, but Daisy was out for the night. She was over visiting Gatsby, but Tom didn't know that. Gatsby had invited me to come over as well, but Tom didn't know that either.

He was in a thoughtful mood that night, casting moody glances at the shadows as if to check that no one was watching him or listening in to our conversation, which until that point had been fairly innocuous, him ranting about white superiority and me trying to talk about the stock market when I could get a word in edgewise.

At last, he seemed to be getting around to what he had to say. He said, "I'm worried about Daisy."

I said in my cheeriest voice, "Husbands often are troubled about their wives. Women are mysteries beyond any of us. Say, do you have any more lemonade?" (I don't drink alcohol when I'm visiting the Buchanans. Actually, I rarely drink alcohol at all.)

Tom frowned at me disapprovingly. "She's been very quiet recently. And she's out nights so often."

Now this was something I really didn't want to hear about. If it was discussed much further I would have to outright lie about Daisy's nighttime occupations and the cause of her strange moods-Gatsby-and I am a very honest man.

"It's a good city, New York," I said loudly. "Actually I'm often out nights myself. There's a great bar down at..."

He interrupted me, "Nick, don't you get that this is serious? This is my wife! If you can't understand that matters like these are important, it's no wonder you're still single."

Ouch.

My family has many opinions on why I have never been able to keep a girlfriend for more than a month or so, but that one had never been brought up before.

"Daisy is very sensitive," Tom continued, with me now silent. "Is she upset about Myrtle? Is that why she's avoiding me?"

For the next entire hour and a half I listened to him muse on his feelings for Daisy and her probable feelings for him. The subject was entirely distasteful for me. Yet every time I tried to break in with cheery words to break him out of his gloom, he stared me down until I was silent with a look of extreme superiority. Sometimes I hate Tom.

In that case, I might have succeeded better if I had used my third and most devastatingly blunt technique: the feigned sleep.

Sometimes people don't need your full attention to speak to you, you see, or the correct mood. They will force you to hear them out either way and if you try to leave or disengage from the conversation it is taken as an insult. Therefore, the best way to avoid them telling you their deepest secrets and revelations is to pretend that it is impossible to hear them at all by faking complete unconsciousness. Some will be offended that you have fallen asleep during their riveting monologues, but at least most will cease to talk.

Faking sleep is effective against Tom and Daisy Buchanan, and once worked against Jordan Baker, though she rarely has revelations to share so I doubt you will ever encounter that difficulty.

But not even real sleep is protection against a determined Jay Gatsby.

It was only last night that I fell asleep slumped on a desk in the library during one of his parties. I swear I intended to leave before such a thing occurred, but I was avoiding some people and felt too lazy to navigate the main halls and the dancing rooms and the foyer. So I fell asleep. It happens.

Frankly, I'm surprised that Gatsby knew I hadn't left yet. But I suppose he is clever-he knows that every time I come to one of his parties, I always bid him a good night before leaving, no matter how many guests occupy his attention. It is the way we both prefer it.

In any case, I had fallen into a deep sleep that night, being exhausted from dancing and a bit buzzed from champagne. But before it was nearly morning yet, someone shook me awake, gently but in such a persistent manner that I gave up all hopes of slumber.

Of course, it was Gatsby.

"Gatsby," I mumbled, still half asleep, on seeing his face. "What time is it? Party over?"

He shrugged. "It's only one o'clock in the morning." His parties continue long after that.

"Do you mind if I..." I gestured to the desk, where I had been resting my head only a few minutes ago. It had not occurred to me that he might be bothered by my sleeping in his library, especially since Klipspringer slept anywhere in the house that he chose, but I supposed it was a reasonable objection. Nonetheless, he shook his head.

"I don't mind you sleeping here at all, old sport, but there is something I must tell you," he said, smiling at me a little nervously. Odd for Gatsby, his smiles are ridiculously charming most of the time.

Now Gatsby is usually enough of a mystery that I enjoy revelations from him. However, it was one o'clock in the morning. "Can it wait?" I asked. That was rude, but I will repeat that I was half asleep at the time.

Gatsby shook his head. "It won't take very long," he said.

I shrugged and prepared myself for a fantastic tale. What would it be this time, war story, broken heart, romance, secret identity or tragic backstory? With Gatsby, it could be anything and everything.

"I need you to know," Gatsby began. "I...Do you remember the first time I invited you over?"

As if I could ever forget.

I nodded.

"And those times I asked you up in the hydroplane?"

I nodded.

"And I invited you to use my pool?"

I nodded.

(This was not the fantastic tale I had expected, but I supposed I was too sleepy to enjoy one of those anyways. Ghost stories are told in the dark, but Gatsby stories are best told in full daylight.)

"And..." He flushed. I had never before then seen him go red for anyone but Daisy. "Many of those times I asked you to come over after that..."

At this point I was getting a little bewildered.

"The truth of the matter," said Gatsby. "Is that all of those times, back then, the only reason I wanted to see you was because of Daisy. I wanted you to like me so that you would invite Daisy over and persuade her to like me."

I said, "I know that." I had understood from the time when Jordan had explained Gatsby's infatuation to me. A fascinating man like Gatsby would never be interested in me alone, with no other incentive. People always use me, one way or another. Usually to share their burdensome secrets, to have an audience who has little to share in return. In some cases, apparently, to get in touch with my beautiful cousin. It made no difference-I was fond of Gatsby all the same, even if he had little interest in me.

"Oh, you did?" Gatsby said. He swallowed.

"Can I go back to sleep now?" I was already beginning to slump back onto the table again.

"Wait, there's another part," Gatsby said. "Just hear me out, old sport, all right?"

I nodded wearily. Revelations. There was never anything good to hear. People told good news and secrets to their friends and lovers, not to me.

"I need you to know," he said again. "I...It's not like that anymore. I already have Daisy. She loves me again."

This was beginning to feel a lot like a rejection. Next he would be saying, "It's not you, it's me." Anyways, I was too tired to deal with it. "Can you finish this later?"

"No!" Gatsby said. He slammed a hand down on the library table. "Let me finish."

I nodded.

"I don't need you to get to Daisy," Gatsby repeated. "But I've found out that I want you around anyways. I was a fool not to realize before how happy it makes me to have you around. So I just needed you to know that you are a very good friend to me and I hope that you plan on sticking around."

"Oh," I said.

"That's all," Gatsby said.

He was still blushing.

I smiled up at him. "Yes, Gatsby, I plan on sticking around. Who else throws parties like this?"

Gatsby nodded vigorously.

"Of course," I added. "It's not just about the parties."

Gatsby nodded at that too.

But I wasn't going to be giving a monologue at one o'clock in the morning. I don't enjoy giving speeches about friendship anyways. I put my head back on the desk. "Good night Gatsby."

Then I fell asleep again.

So you see, the sleeping method of avoiding confidences is not entirely fool proof. But that was the only time it failed me, and I cannot say I regret it. Much as I do not seek revelations out, there are still some that are worth hearing, particularly when they regard the incomprehensible Gatsby.

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AN: This story was inspired by the quote at the top, and of course the fact that people do seem to confide in Nick. Reviews are always appreciated.


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